Related By Blood
by owlcroft
Summary: There are some relationships that just defy logic and rationality.


These characters are not of my creation, I make no profit whatsoever off them, and no infringement of any kind is intended.

A/N: Two people who never get enough appreciation for all the help they provide are hereby thanked. Many times.

RELATED BY BLOOD

by

Owlcroft

The moon glided between the wind-driven clouds, hazy but bright, a sharp-pointed crescent that peeped fitfully before withdrawing again into the shredded tatters of cloud-veil. Mark McCormick stood on the edge of the south lawn, gazing intently at the glittering, heaving surface of the ocean. He folded his arms, lowered his head and tightened his lips against the cold, salty spray driven up the face of the precipice from the beach below. Distantly, the sound of thunder (or traffic from the highway) reached his ears and provided a muttering backdrop to the blackly-despairing thoughts that reverberated through his brain. It was a dark and stormy night.

Judge Hardcastle observed the still figure from his bedroom window. _Damn kid's out there again. He's gonna fall down that cliff one of these days and then I'll have to go out and drag him back up, listening to the McCormick whine the whole way. Then I'll hafta pay **another **doctor's bill and spend days and days hanging over him in the hospital and then when I finally get him him home the weeds'll have taken over the whole place and he's just gonna lie around eating cookies and complaining. There's no justice in this world!_

Just then the clouds obscured the moon completely and an unearthly shriek rent the night air. _Got an owl around here_, thought Hardcastle dourly. _Oh, well, it'll help with the mouse infestation in the poolhouse. _He noticed that McCormick had disappeared. _Musta seen a couple of skinny-dipping bimbos down on the beach. Huh! Wish I had that kid's hormones. _

The next day dawned redly and the oily swell of the sea resembled a greasy soup near the boil. Sea birds screamed and wailed like souls in torment as they swept and curvetted through the icy morning mist. The judge waited impatiently for Mark to appear for the daily basketball game, tapping his tennis-shoe shod foot in an irritable cadence. Just as he was about to shout up at the diamond-latticed window above the court, a pale, frowzy McCormick stumbled out of the gatehouse onto the sidewalk leading to the paved basketball court.

"'Bout time you showed up!" snapped Hardcastle. "You know what time it is?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mark muttered. "It's 4:30 and I'm two minutes late." He rubbed at his bleary eyes and looked at the judge with severe disapprobation. "So, you gonna play or just stand there being a big sourpuss?"

What followed was twenty minutes of some of the roughest gorilla basketball ever seen at Gull's Way. The judge suffered a broken nose and two pulled knee ligaments, while Mark tore a rib muscle and badly sprained his pinky. Both men sat and panted after Hardcastle sank the winning point, made possible by his subtle use of a kidney punch.

"Wanna . . . go for . . . twenty?" puffed the judge.

Mark tenderly felt the area over his left kidney. "Nah." He tried taking a deep breath, then winced and quit breathing. "You'd win. Besides, it's hard to find my pulse these days."

"Huh?" queried Hardcastle intelligently.

"I mean," McCormick thought frantically, stalling for time by checking which teeth were loose, "I'm breathing too hard to take my pulse right now." He huffed loudly a few times, then rose gingerly.

The judge regarded him with concern, the fear of losing this ex-con who'd become dearer than life to him apparent in his rapidly-blackening eyes. "You're getting outta shape. And you haven't been eating a whole lot the past few days. You coming down with something?"

"Um, yeah, I may have a touch of something. No big deal, though." Mark winced and limped toward the main house. "I had a little snack late last night. But I'll go get your breakfast started."

Hardcastle watched him stagger up the driveway and thought back to the early days of their relationship. After the initial clash of personalities, they'd quickly settled into a harmonious friendship of carping, bickering and arguing that amazed the people who knew them both. The smart-mouthed car thief with the curly hair had wormed his way into the heart of the crusty, aggravating judge as no other jailbird ever had. What life would be like without Mark's disrespectful comments and high-pitched sarcasms brought moisture to the judge's eyes. Angry at himself for being sappy, he dashed the tears away and murmured to himself, "I love that rotten kid."

ooooo

McCormick stood in front of the mirror in the gatehouse bathroom, mesmerized by the lack of a reflection. _If only I hadn't decided to clean out the garage_, he thought disconsolately. _The only bat I've ever seen and it had to bite me. _He sighed gustily and fingered the area on his well-muscled chest where the St. Jude's medal had hung until it started to eat like acid through the firm, manly torso. _Now, I need to figure out a way to keep the judge from buying any more garlic. And I need to get him to buy lots of steaks, cooked medium-raw!_

Mark tried an evil grin, then frowned as he realized he couldn't see what it looked like. _Have to get rid of all the mirrors in the place, though. The judge may be a donkey, but he's not stupid. _He sighed, then smiled. _Yeah, he's a donkey, all right; but he's __**my **donkey. All those years of being unwanted and unloved, all the yearning for affection and security, all the hopelessness, the fear, the lack of a father figure; all gone now thanks to that crabby old guy over there. I love that miserable old coot._

ooooo

A cold breeze sighed and moaned around the corner of the den as a shadowed, slavering figure crept silently across the neatly-trimmed lawn. McCormick, picking dog hairs off his tongue, peered into the dimly-lit window and saw Judge Hardcastle contentedly watching one of his favorite movies _–_ "Story of a Cow Town", a rollicking comedy about a troupe of vaudeville stars stranded in St. Louis at Christmas. Jane Bigelow played the front of a pantomime horse and John Wayne was the other half.

Mark sighed deeply and felt tears begin to form. _There he sits, chowing down on popcorn, while I'm out here sneaking around in the dark, tracking domestic pets for my dinner. Oh, Judge, you know I'd happily die for you, but I'm just not sure I can __**live **for you – not this life, anyway. _The tears were falling freely now, a combination of love for his substitute father and self-pity. _And what happens as you get older, Hardcase? I'm gonna stay like this, but you'll age and get feeble and eventually . . . I'll lose you, just like I've lost everything I've ever loved. Unless . . . _McCormick shook his head suddenly. _No! I couldn't. It wouldn't be right. On the other hand . . . _He mused for moment, still watching the jurist gorging himself on popcorn. _Hmmm. I need to think about this. He would live forever, but could I really bring myself to do it? Would he want it? After all, it would mean we could be together forever. I know you love me, Judge. I know you think of me as a son. No, it's wrong! I can't do that to him. Or could I? Is it nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows by myself? Or is it just my resolution being sicklied over with the pale cast of thought? Oh, too much thinking makes my brain hurt! _Mark turned away from the window, wincing from the sudden headache, wiping the tear tracks from his cheeks. _It's late and I need to sleep, perchance to dream._

ooooo

"What's that you're humming?" Hardcastle looked up from the news section of the paper.

"Um, 'Music of the Night'," replied McCormick without taking his attention from the Dodgers' latest loss.

"Well," said the judge testily, "you can't sing _that_. 'Phantom of the Opera' doesn't open until October! Why don'tcha sing 'Good Morning, Starshine'. I always liked those lyrics. Hey, look here. Another dog missing in Malibu." He glanced up. "That's six in the past few days. The owners say they found traces of blood in the driveway."

McCormick tugged irritably at the bristle caught between his teeth. "Yeah, miniature Schnauzer. I hate those dogs."

Hardcastle continued to scan the article titled 'Monster in Malibu?' as he shook his head in disgust. "No traces at all. No footprints, no car tracks, no fingerprints on anything. The only clue they have is some batty old lady who heard something like a big bird outside." He folded up the paper and tossed it onto the table. "Probably a condor."

Mark nodded. "Yeah. Well, I gotta get started on that fan belt. You gonna help?"

"Don't know why you can't do this by yourself, you're a big boy now," grumbled the judge, levering himself out of his chair. He continued to gripe all the way to the garage, where the Corvette sat gleaming blackly. "Okay, where's the new fan belt?"

"Over here. I'll get it." McCormick crossed in front of the 'Vette to the driver's side and Hardcastle noticed the chrome bumper showed no reflection of the man he'd come to secretly think of as his son.

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place – Mark's lack of a pulse and loss of appetite, the missing neighborhood pets, all the mirrors disappearing suddenly. The judge gasped. "But . . . but it can't be! You're not sensitive to daylight!"

McCormick turned to face him and realized his dark secret was out. He shrugged in resignation. "What do you want, it's only fanfic. How much research do you expect people to do anyway?" He spread his hands apart and inspected them. "Besides, that SPF 40 stuff really works."

Hardcastle steeled himself. There was only one thing to be done. "Mark, listen to me. You know I have to do this." He grabbed up a hammer from the workbench and rummaged in the litter underneath until he found a wooden picket left over from the sea fence repair. "There's only one way for you to find peace." Tears sprang to his eyes, and he brushed them fiercely away. "Forgive me, son."

McCormick uttered a hollow laugh and assumed a satanic mien. "You're no match for my strength now, Judge! I am McCormick, Master of the Night!"

Choking down sobs, the judge flung himself desperately at the figure before him. They wrestled together violently for several minutes, and the judge found himself blacking out from the iron-like grip on his hyoid bone. With his last shred of consciousness, he heard the leathery flap of giant wings and glimpsed needle-like white fangs, then felt a stabbing pain in his throat.

ooooo

Hours later, the judge woke slowly, senses swimming. Tentatively, he touched the tiny wounds on his neck. He felt muzzy, but surprisingly hale. _What the hell . . . someone was hugging me. Oh, yeah. McCormick! _Hardcastle pushed himself to his feet and bolted toward the kitchen door, but came to a sudden stop when he saw Mark sitting in one of the patio chairs, reading intently.

McCormick lifted his head and grinned at the judge. "Hey, how you feeling?"

"You . . . you," sputtered Hardcastle. "You're a vampire! And you bit me!"

"Yeah," Mark drawled. "You're gonna miss not being able to go for twenty any more." He leaned forward in the patio chair. "Look, Judge, it's not really all that terrible. I mean, we'll still be going after the bad guys in your files. It's just that they won't be able to shoot us any more. And we've both been shot way too many times already. Besides," he cast a wicked glance at Hardcastle out of the corners of his eyes, "we'll be--"

"Hold it," commanded the judge, holding up a hand, palm out. "You make some kinda lame joke about Batman and I swear I'll clean your clock!"

"Nope," said McCormick, smiling. "I was just gonna say we'll be famous crime-biters."

finis


End file.
